Poetry from Michael Robinson

 

Sky

 

Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

 

 

Holding you in my arms, keeping you close.

The sky always a trusted place for my spirit,

Always reaching to touch the angel’s wings,

Holding you close to me forever.

 

 

Sadness

 

Sadness there is no sadness between the two of us,

Tears remind me of your smile and warm heart.

There is no sadness between you and me today,

Sadness is our way to hold one another close,

Watering our souls.

 

 

 

Sweetness of Life

 

Like the flowers that sprout up,

So is our love for one another.

Ever-changing, forever growing,

Forever blowing in the wind.

 

 

Bitterness

 

No bitterness as you move on with your life,

There is a sense of resolution between us.

No bitterness between me and the stars,

Angels rejoice while the stars sparkle.

 

 

Time

 

Heaven has no time,

Time passes only in the now.

Heaven does not need time,

We will always have time to love.

 

 

Empty Room

 

The folded sheets were neat across the bed.

Everything was as I remembered in your room.

The nightstand with a vase of flowers,

Holding each heart.

 

 

Words II

 

It was a warm summer evening,

Having what was to be our last conversation.

It was no words nor holding hands,

Just the look in our eyes.

The conversation is still with me,

What story our eyes tell.

 

 

Seldom

 

Seldom did I realize my care for you. Thinking back over the years, it was an unsaid understanding between us. Years passed, and now while you are in a nursing home, suddenly I miss you. My visits remind me of the years we spent sitting at the same table, unable to tell the story of our love. It was seldom that I did not shower you with my feelings. Now when I visit you. I cry all alone in the house.

 

Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

Paul Trittin’s historical novel Jacobus: A Eunuch’s Faith
This is the tale of a pair of twins, Jacobus and Josephus, born to Abraham Bar Jacob and his wife. Their mother passed away shortly after their birth. As the twins became older it became apparent they were both natural eunuchs. When they reached the age of manhood, 14, their father took Jacobus to work on his cargo ship, the Dolphin. The Captain took him under his wing and trained him well. The captain then introduced him to his extended family, who took him in and adopted him as one of their own. From this he learned of the prophet Jesus, who was said to love everyone including eunuchs, and wanted people to hear how to give their lives to His Father, God. This book is very intriguing and will hold your interest all the way through. This is Part One. I know Part Two will be just as exciting as the first.
About the book, from the publisher: 

In the first century Roman Empire at fourteen, the legal age of manhood, Jacobus’ father contracted him to relatives in Sicily as an apprentice learning his Jewish family’s shipping business. Being what the Greeks called a “natural eunuch,” he found himself living with two “cut eunuch” Carthaginian slaves who eventually became his lovers. As his apprenticeship progressed, the family recognized his natural leadership abilities surpassed his age. By sixteen he developed a strategy to enter the India trade which succeeded beyond expectations. He also become the second “spouse” of his cousin, the director of Aetna Shipping. Everything in his life changed when his brother-in-law, Simon from Cyrene, was awoken one night by a frightening vision causing some of the family, with their Judeo-Indian partners to take Simon to Jerusalem for Passover.

About the author: 

Southern California native now in Carson Valley, Nevada * Attended Vanguard University in Costa Mesa, California * Served US Army in Congressional Liason during Vietnam era * Vice President of three family held corporations, approx. 100 employees * Recruited to join three colleagues in Brussels to found what is now Global University Director textbook publications * First non-Flemish artist to participate in National Flemish Art Exhibition in Belgium * Director of Operations, Life Publishers International in Miami, Member Editorial Board * Primary Partner, YangTri Trading International, Kansas City * Partner, MIR House Publishing, Kansas City * Partner, BT Concepts, Grand Haven, Michigan * President, Baker Trittin Press, Publisher of Adventure Books for boys * Chairman Tweener Ministries, Sponsor of International Competitions for high school students to write children’s books, university scholarships were awarded * Commissioned Artist * Co-founder, Gay Christian Fellowship * International Foreign Missionary for a US-based Protestant Denomination, 16 years * A CLOSETED gay Christian from pre-puberty to 2009 Book 1 / The Apprentice

The Girl With A Pink Crayon In The Back Yard by Vasvi Pande
The Girl With a Pink Crayon In the Backyard is the first delightfully cute book. The author is a very talented now, 8 year old girl. She wrote the book when she was a mere 7 years old. Miss Vasvi Pande also did the illustrations for her books. It is about a little girl who is sad and lonely. When she spots a very sparkly pink crayon in her backyard. She picks it up and takes it to her room where she talks to it and takes care of it. She is very excited to take it to school with her the next day. This children’s book will be an absolute delight from toddlers to the second or third grade. Miss Pande is a very talented young author and artist. I think she will have a promising career in children’s books. I very highly recommend this book.
The Girl With a Pink Crayon at School by Vasvi Pande
The Girl with a Pink Crayon at School is an absolutely adorable book. Vasvi Pande wrote and illustrated it when she was 7 years old, she is now 8 years old. It is about a little girl who is very lonely and wants to play with two other little girls. She tells her magical pink crayon, then the other two girls notice her and want to play. This is a delightful children’s book that toddlers to second or third graders will enjoy. The illustrations are bright and colorful and will hold the attention of toddlers. I completely enjoyed this very cute book. What an inspiration to other children Vasvi is to write and illustrate such a delightful book at the age of seven. I believe Miss Pande has quite the career of a children’s author ahead of her.
Krista the Superhero by Vasvi Pande
Krista the Superhero is another very cute book by Vasvi Pande. In this book, Krista wants to be a superhero. On her first day of kindergarten she sees a classmate who is about to get hurt and she helps him. This delightful book teaches children how helping others and always being nice to others makes not only other people but themselves feel good. This book has a story that toddlers to second or third graders will enjoy. The illustrations are bright and will capture the attention of a very young audience. I highly recommend this book. Miss Vasvi Pande has a bright future ahead of her as a children’s author and illustrator.
The Cloudburst by Rajesh Naiksatam
The Cloudburst by Rajesh Naiksatam is a novel perfect for the tween and teen age group. It is the story of Ganpu Aapla a !5 yr old boy who works with his parents in their dilapidated old house build on stilts. Above a window that says Takloo Chai Shop. The house is next to a bus stop. They used to live in Dabhol India until the government sold them out to foreigners, then they lost everything. While a teacher is waiting for her friend at the bus stop a tour bus with several privileged spoiled rich children breaks down. They all wait at the bus stop until the rain gets much worse. The teacher leads them up the stairs to Ganpu’s place and they all go in there. Then the rain gets so bad a flash flood starts and is about to wash the house away. Ganpu gets all of them to work together to build a sturdy raft. They all get on the raft and go to safety. Cloudburst has plenty of adventure on every page. Even teens will enjoy this book. It is definitely a real page turner. I enjoyed it very much and know it will make the perfect gift for a tween or teen.

Poetry from James Goss

Parking Lot Poem

Miles found ways to utilize time and space, inventing. We just exist as if that were ever enough, then Coltrane touches on the cosmic ineffable fixing your motorcycle by the side of the road, explaining why we should live in color, not sepia tones, sour milk and perpetual emergency room, exercising our freedom of choice, passing out lottery tickets of inequality our waking ritual, breakfast of mediocrity, self-satisfied drones of monotheistic endless plastic empires, empires of plastic surgery, the toast of the town, depraved money changers and emotional arbitrage, trading on hope, dope and celebrity everlasting, in whose god we trust, absolutely worshipping false American Idols, the slaves of freedom, because it is there, an excuse that covers up everything a red carpet death ward simplification, making life tidy, the suburban nightmare ordering chaos, a tombstone complacent pastime the rhythmic on-air male menopausal chatter, attempting to comfort the big guy football jock itch scoreboard burn rubber peel out gear grinding groaning peasantry for all that noise you solve life’s mystery bloodlust streetlights echo war, love and democracy for sale there will be no peace in our lifetime, Rome wasn’t built in a day and it didn’t fall overnight either, you can have it your way, you’re a lucky winner, shut up and play your guitar, you are doing your part for the war effort, keeping it going because you believe in yourself.

–James Goss

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Author J.J. Campbell

Author J.J. Campbell

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, wondering where the lonely housewives are hiding. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine, Live Nude Poems and Yellow Mama. You can find him most days perched upon his soapbox on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
————————————————————————————————————————————-
back together again
i have had
my heart
broken so
many times
that i can no
longer put the
pieces back
together
again
i’m not happy
that destiny has
determined alone
is the only way
i can go through
the rest of this
life
but it is
what it is
i’ll have the
last laugh
every good
asshole does
———————————————————————————————
the second day
i had a woman cuss
me out this morning
because i wouldn’t
give her money
mind you, this was
the second day i have
ever talked to her in
my life
she said i was an
ugly fucking asshole
some people just
know i guess
—————————————————————————————
the calm before the proverbial storm
it’s that easy,
peaceful feeling
right before
disaster hits
the calm
before the
proverbial
storm
it’s why only
the lucky get
to live by the
moment
the rest of us
get blindsided
by reality
left to scramble
for whatever is
left
the hopeless
become helpless
while the rich
laugh all the
way to their
golden banks
in the cloud
——————————————————————————————
anger and despair with every chord
i remember the old
blues men i used to
admire in my late
teens
the smoke in the air
anger and despair
with every chord
sipping on a glass
of bourbon or
whatever my older
face could get me
i would always get
lost in the saxophone
solo
transported to a
woman i need, the
sweat racing down
my back and how
forever could wait
for just one more
moment
—————————————————————————————–
a sign of being defeated
this frown is
permanent
i believe it
was when
i finally
realized what
happened in
the bathroom
when i was
a child
it’s a sign
of sorrow
a sign of
being defeated
a sign of
submission
to whatever
unlucky soul
happens to
be looking
i’m too old
for this fucking
song and dance
anymore
i don’t think
of myself as
a victim
but the world
hasn’t exactly
supported that
thought
—————————————————————————

Mahbub reviews Raj Naiksatam’s The Cloudburst

A review of Raj Naiksatam’s novel The Cloudburst

By Mahbub

The Cloudburst by Rajesh Naiksatam is a novel that lives up to its title gradually, developing with an excellent form, style and line of thought. It reveals the past and present exploitation and persecution of India’s common people by both Indian nationals and foreigners. But nature is the best healer when all things within and outside us cleanse us, giving us a hope for starting anew. The author was born and brought up in Mumbai, India. So, his knowledge of the country runs through this story, taking place all over India and the Indian subcontinent. The characters are international, from all corners of the world.

Editor’s note: here’s a summary of Mahbub’s view of Rajesh Naiksatam’s The Cloudburst! 

E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India illustrated colonial attitudes towards Indian culture in 1924: the people’s behavior and attitudes, how the rulers treated the commoners. Now, nearly one hundred years later, Rajesh Naiksatam’s The Cloudburst pulls off a similar feat with a different type of setting, a fresh style and characters, and lucid and colloquial language. 

Mahbub, a Bangladeshi author and English teacher

Continue reading Mahbub’s summary/review here. Continue reading →

Poetry from Mahbub

The Death of The Dog

Mahbub, a Bangladeshi author and English teacher

It was just at the evening

Finishing my morning prayer at the mosque

I kept my feet on the highway

A sound stroke my head and heart

As it was knocked down by a vehicle

Moaning and groaning so poor in condition

Sickly sound the last for ever

Stop my breath taking for a while

Just like a baby before going to sleep

Keeping its front hands to its mother’s head whimpered

The last pathos lost for all

Brimming to the air

Revolved my mind and mentality

We all are going to pass the silence of the night.

 

 

Nightmare

 

We are born ambitious

Like to rise high, fly in the sky

Flow on the water, to the highest pick of the mountain

The lives lay flat on the ground

Innumerable skulls deep in the whole

Gnarled in the open air

We die every time in our sleep

Every night we roar and moan in nightmare

We struggle for something

We die for something for the next welfare

Achieved or not

But die for achieving till the point of the result

The ship is bound to the harbor

But found always in midst of the ocean

Sinking and rising

Making the belly a football

Crawling a long way seem to be too tired

Not to be able to enter into the hall

The sun rays too hot

The tigers devour the body

Bloods seeping from above

How can I escape?

 

 

 

Emancipation

 

Many children have been lost in the manhole

Many lost in the dark

Many fought but defeated in the struggle

Many spend the nights by the highways in the dirt and dust

What they eat we never think for

They don’t have the courage to the white spark

Man is born free but not for other’s future

We struggle only for power and dignity

We never keep our hand to the helpless world

We demand not so heavy only for the right to be loved

To take away from the condition of starvation

To plan for rehabilitation and sanitation

We eat we bleed angry and hungry

How can we flee from this dying and suffocating world?

Will it ever be possible to inhale the fresh air?

Is there any unseen hand that might emancipate us?

 

 

 

Come On, O Raindrops

 

The sky is ready with clouds

Pours the drops of rain

The thirsty land quenches its throat

From many years the leaves dried or dying

Likely to get drenched by the water

Thrives from the core of heart

Turn back me

Spread your hand over

Just like the water from the sky

Fill up the gaps green and fresh

So peaceful to the sight

Burning my body turning to death

O dear, come on.

 

 

Play Ground

 

In every step of age we are playing

Even in the sleep we play

As long as our heart beats

We play struggling to throw the ball in the goal post

We clap our hands glitter the eyes

We dance sigh a relief wind

I am to you are to me

We walk hand in hand in the ground

We look forward behind

Take care to win for the next time

The spectators on the gallery

Crying laughing

Defeated winner

In every step of life we are playing.

 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

07/07/2018

 

Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Waiting Cheese Platter Under Wraps

 

I am sitting alone

in Conference Room D.

 

Beside the rattling tin of instant coffee

and waiting cheese platter

under wraps.

 

The wire microphones

in front of each swivel chair

like twisted forgotten

balloon animals.

 

Corporate art walls

and freshly vacuumed floors.

 

Then my wife comes in.

 

What are you doing?

I thought you were waiting for me

outside the bathrooms.

What if someone comes in right now?

 

I tell her to sit down.

That anyone who walks in

will assume I am in charge

and that I will run the

conference.

 

You don’t even know what the conference

is about!

 

But I know what it should be about.

 

Let’s get out of here,

she says.

 

I reluctantly give up my seat

at the head of the table.

Leaving Conference Room D

to fend for itself.

 

On the placard outside

it reads: Millwrights Union

Local 1916.

 

You don’t even know what a millwright is!

she scoffs.

 

Sure I do,

I say.

It’s a group of people that mill about

with the right posture.

 

That would have been one hell of an interesting conference,

she laughs.

 

I tell her we can always go back.

She can sit in and keep the minutes.

The chairs turn around just like in The Exorcist.

 

She drags me by the arm

while I snatch her purse

and let her know that I’m beginning

my life of crime.

A Complete Stranger

 

You got the stuff?

he asked.

 

And since I didn’t have the stuff

he turned away quickly

and walked off.

 

Looking back once

with a confused look

before he rounded the corner

and was gone.

 

 

Prong

 

The plug is fishing for attention

over by the outlet along the far wall.

It is harpooning whaling vessels

back into bloody waters.

Double-pronged and prom night

obvious with its intentions.

Four days until another

failed apocalypse comes to pass.

These doomsdayers keep

getting second chances.

I stopped believing what people

said somewhere around 1989.

That was a big year for me.

Hair on my balls

and my first time on an airplane.

I have given the plug what it wants.

Some undeserved attention.

Not a place in the wall with the spiders,

but the next best thing.

 

 

Shoosh

 

Lay off the big scream,

don’t let them hear you.

 

Make them lean into something else

like knocking over a stack of

old newspapers.

 

Tiptoe around the cauldron

Mr. Stir-stick.

 

Cover your mouth

cover your bets.

 

Your word is not enough.

They want all the words you

can think of.

 

 

A Princess Lion with Leopard Spots

 

Kitten has gone for her haircut.

To remove all the mats.

She is the manor work cat.

 

My wife calls to tell me that kitten

felt self-conscious at first,

but that everyone kept picking her up

and telling her how beautiful she looks

and that now she is strutting around everyone.

 

Little Miss Thang!

my wife says.

I thought she had stripes like a tiger,

but now that she’s shaved down

you can see she has spots more like

a leopard.

 

A princess lion with leopard spots,

I say.

 

Yes!

she yells excitedly.

Did I tell you that she tried

to leave work with me

the other night?

 

I tell her she did not.

 

Good thing I looked down.

Little Miss Thang was walking out

the door proud as she pleased with the hook tail

cats get when they’re happy.

 

She says she’s been told by her boss

that she can’t bring the work cat home.

 

She told Kitten she had to stay,

but that my wife would be back soon.

 

So she was running a hustle on you,

I say.

Trying to make you think she always

came home with you.

 

Oh yes, she acted like it was natural

and I was weird for questioning it.

It was so cute!

 

I tell her that if she had her way

we’d have all the cats in the world.

 

My wife laughs

and says she still wants that shirt

that says all the cats love

her best.

 

Even this cat,

I joke.

 

Ahhhh,

she says.

 

But don’t tell Kitten,

I say.

Those felines get

really jealous.

 

She promises not to tell

and we hang up.

 

Then I watch a documentary

on turn of the century madhouses

in England.

 

 

Ganglia Wires

 

If I could

see into the future

I would cut my eyes out

and give them

to you.

 

Snip the ganglia wires

and everything.

 

Now

they are your

problem.

 

Pass them along

the family line if you want.

 

I promise

I didn’t put a curse

on them.

 

That is just

bad luck.

 

 

2 Degree Sky Differential

 

I come downstairs

and she shows me what she

has been working on

all afternoon.

 

See what I did there?

she asks.

 

You made the colour picture

black and white,

I say.

 

Not that,

she says.

I fixed the sky.

 

You fixed the sky?

 

The sky was crooked,

she says

going back and forth

between the two pictures.

 

See?

 

Not really,

I say.

 

She turns the computer screen

back towards herself.

 

How can you not see that?

 

You’re the artistic one,

I say,

did you really think I would

march downstairs

and say I see you fixed the sky,

there was a 2 degree sky differential,

but you fixed it.

I like what you did there,

does that sound

like me?

 

She take a large swig of her wine.

It is a white Chardonnay.

 

I saw what you did there,

I say.

Does that count?

Frogs

 

The back door is open.

You can hear the frogs singing.

Before the real heat arrives

so there is no fan.

 

And we are drinking rum.

Something from a bottle made to look

as though some second rate pirate stole it

and buried it in our fridge for

safekeeping.

 

I come back from the bathroom

and it is Summertime.

 

Not the real summer in full,

but Sydney Bechet

on clarinet.

 

The wife was always good with the reeds.

Has a natural aptitude for music.

The frogs still singing in the dark.

 

A napkin over my mouth

to wipe away the

evidence.